Kid Rock

Cocky

Lava / Atlantic

There is def, and then there is deaf. There is stoopid, and then there’s stupid. You can pimp, or you can limp.

Kid Rock, brother, you limpin’.

I was with ya on Devil – “MY NAME IS KID!,” all that. Fun stuff. You didn’t take your Detroit trailer trash ass too seriously. You mixed your hip-hop peanut butter with your Aerosmith chocolate, and it tasted fine, washed down with a 4-0.

Then came that gimmie money comp History Of Rock that kept the energy goin’ (and got ya on WWF with “American Bad Ass”), and we could all overlook that.

But here comes Cocky, and from looking at the pictures in the booklet, large attempts have been made to make it look like a rock record — guitars everywhere, and Kid plays one on most every song, and for the most part it does sound like one, over a drum machine. In the press kit he proclaims his love of southern rock, namedropping Z.Z Top, for example. He tries, he really does, and hits at least one southern rocker dead center.

Marshall Tucker.

Lameass “can’t you see” bullshit. Yeah, I can see. I can see you are seriously deficient in the “rock” department. If not snoozin’ with Sheryl Crow on the tedious “Picture,” he’s rippin’ off ’80s hair metal to back up his “I’m Back” raps and “I’m a singer not a role model” copouts. The last cut, “WCSR” with Snoop Dogg is as offensive and stupid as you would expect, and other than a fond farewell to his runnin’ buddy Joe C, there isn’t an ounce of heart on this record. Rock, you better hope you didn’t piss off your homies in Detroit too bad on your way up, because a few more fumbles like this record, Pamela Anderson is gonna be bangin’ some kid from ‘NSync, and your ass is pumpin’ gas at an all-night stop and rob. Dig?